Modern Inheritance
by aryaelvinsword
Summary: A collection of short, loosely plot-connected shorts. More Modern AU with some characters still alive. Really a foray into PTSD and Inheritance cycle with some humor thrown in. Rated T for torture flashbacks, some swearing and some violence. More thorough summery inside.
1. Introduction

Welcome to Modern Inheritance!

These are a collection of 'snippets,' as I like to call them, of a more modern AU of the Inheritance cycle. I have no ability to write in chronological order or do things chapter by chapter, so, as I have on Deviantart, I will be uploading each shot whenever I finish and edit, and then note the general time that the short takes place in regards to the plot of Inheritance Cycle.

Specific notes regarding the 'modernization:'

Guns exist and are used, but swords and knives are still just as common and are often preferred.

Automobiles and planes to not exist, but heavy artillery with rudimentary engines running on magic energy exist. Horses are still the preferred method of travel.

 _Some_ tech exists, but again runs on magic energy.

Brom is alive.

Glenwing is alive (more on that later).

Arya is a bit more open, a little more humorous, but can be just as serious as her cannon counterpart and deals heavily with PTSD and flashbacks when alone.

On the note of PTSD: These stories will deal quite a bit with the effects of war on individuals and how they cope. It was lightly touched on in Paolini's books, but I felt it could be more expanded on. I personally deal with night terrors at least once a week and this started as a way for me to explore the Inheritance cycle and deal with my own anxieties at night.

Apologies for the long introduction, but with the, shall I say, _randomness_ of some parts of this AU, I felt the need to explain before anyone dove in.

I do hope you enjoy, and I do hope this has not put anyone off of reading. Cheers mates!


	2. Night Terrors, Part 1

**WARNING: This story deals with torture flashbacks, several of which are specifically dealing with waterboarding. If these scenes would cause any problems for you, please do not read. I am only basing my portrayal of PTSD on internet research and no first hand knowledge, so please do not take offense or use this as any sort of symptom checker. I'm not WebMD and you shouldn't rely on that anyway. However, I AM basing the portrayal of a night terror on personal first hand experience, but everyone experiences night terrors differently. If you are not swayed by this warning, then by all means, please read, enjoy, and leave constructive crit if that takes your fancy.**

 **NIGHT TERRORS, Pt. 1**

Arya never really slept well.

True, her sleep got a bit better once they had arrived at Ellesméra, something she was incredibly thankful for, but being able to sleep through every other night without nightmares or a heart pounding night terror ripping her from her waking dreams was still not good enough to be considered 'sleeping well.' If it weren't for those blessed nights of uninterrupted slumber the elf was sure she would be a walking wreck.

So far she had managed to avoid waking anyone else. Islanzadí, surprisingly enough, would occasionally check on her daughter in the middle of the night, and on nights where she found her sitting at the balcony staring at the stars, the queen would join her in silent companionship. It was a sign their relationship was mending, and if Arya was still stuck, mute and fearful, in her dreams, the slender arm that wrapped around her shoulders and soft humming would pull the younger elf from the darker recesses of her mind.

Something about tonight was different, though. As Arya slipped under the comforter on her bed– having finally gotten used to sleeping in it after two weeks of sleeping on a progressively thicker pile of sleeping bags on the floor– she felt a tingle of distant static dart across the pads of her fingers. When she glanced out the doors to the balcony, a far off thunderhead appeared as a purple smear against the orange and pink sunset. Lightning flickered through the cloud, seeming to rent it from corner to corner before it again returned to the color of bruised skin.

 _'Good. We haven't had rain in some time.'_ The elf thought as she turned on her side and closed her eyes. She tugged the corner of the comforter under her chin and drifted off into her waking dreams, hoping the sway of the tree would lull her into a peaceful sleep.

Arya's waking dreams stuttered. Something had changed in her surroundings, something she couldn't quite put her finger on until she realized she couldn't breathe.

 _Everything felt heavy and damp, especially around her face and definitely over her mouth and nose. It was pitch black and something was clamped over her eyes, shoving her head back against a hard, flat surface. She couldn't move, no matter how much she internally screamed at her muscles to do so, and with a terrifying jolt she realized she couldn't breathe either. Warm water gushed into her mouth and flooded her sinuses, panic filling her chest as quickly as the liquid did._

 _"_ We can end this here and now, elf. _" A cold voice whispered in her ear, and the fall of water against her face halted. The hand over Arya's eyes lifted and bright light flared across her lids as a sodden cloth was removed. The demon beside the woman let her cough and choke, trying to expel the water in her lungs but unable to while he still pushed her head back with a hand on her clammy forehead. "_ What say you, hm? A few words are all I want. Speak them to me, and you will be released from this. _" He knew she wouldn't be able to respond, not verbally at least, but that was part of his game. He knew she would never speak._

 _Using the little leeway he gave her, Arya managed to scowl, spitting water from between her teeth, and shake her head a few millimeters from side to side. Durza sighed mockingly and slapped the wet cloth back down over her face. "_ Oh well. Ready to die again, little elf? _"_

Lightning flashed across Arya's eyes as she fell from the bed and hit the floor hard, a strangled cry escaping her throat. She scrambled to kick the tangled comforter off of her legs and dove for her pack to rip her sword from where it was tied to the frame.

A clap of thunder rang out as she pulled the blade free just in time to feel her back flare white hot with agony, lines of fire tracing wounds she knew had been healed. It had been weeks since they closed, hadn't it? _Hadn't it?!_

A fist slammed into her side, cracking a rib and sending her to the floor again, sword still clamped in a white knuckled grip.

 _'Get dressed. Get out of here. Fight.'_ The thought was barely registered as Arya scrambled for the combat pants she wore while with the Varden, another line of pain lancing its way up her right arm. For a brief moment, as she struggled to yank the pants on without giving up her sword, she swore she saw blood dripping from her fingers, trailing from a deep gash that revealed the bones and tendons flexing in her forearm.

She dropped her blade for a split second to yank on a standard issue cotton shirt and then snatched the weapon up again. She tore her pistol belt and combat jacket out of her pack, quickly patting the pockets to make sure the pressure bandage and small medkit were still there, and slung both over her arm. Thunder crashed again, followed by a clap of lightning nearby.

Another blow clipped the elf's shoulder as she dashed for the balcony, nearly shoving her out the open doors before she caught herself on the jamb.

It was raining. Wet spray splashed up into Arya's face and she recoiled, feeling her throat tighten and her already rapid heartbeat increase. _She couldn't_ breathe. _He chuckled coldly and pushed her off the table with his boot, watching her vomit up water and what little food remained in her stomach as she convulsed on the floor. All that water and yet it still felt as if her lungs were on fire._

Arya could feel another strike coming, another slash from a whip arcing through the damp air. It was either continue facing her invisible attackers or brave the water.

With a savage growl the elf bounded through the doorway and out into the elements, leaping from the balcony to the tier below, the tier below that one, and finally to the ground. She straightened from the crouch she had landed in, then staggered as the raindrops slammed into her back and sent fresh shocks of pain across her skin. The raw wounds– _'Why are they open again?!'_ – and exposed nerves registered each and every drop of water as a lightning bolt that seared its way to her brain.

 _"_ Giving up so soon? I expected more of you. _" Arya looked up and saw the Shade before her with a mockingly disappointed expression. She bolted to her feet and struck out at his face, only to be thrown against the wall as if she were no more than a child. Stars and lights exploded across her eyes even as she charged him again, refusing to be led like a lamb to slaughter. She fought tooth and nail until he succeeded in pinning her and the whip slammed into her already mutilated back, and the cycle of torture started anew._

And then she was running, _sprinting_ across the elvish capitol, heart pounding in her ears and a knot of terror in her stomach. Everything was wrong, everything was _burning._ Smoke filled her lungs as she dashed blindly in a direction that, for some inexplicable reason, promised safety.

A bullet suddenly hissed by her ear, cutting through the raindrops with a high-pitched song, then another shot clean through the muscle of her side with a spray of blood. She gasped and stumbled, then spat out the raindrops she had inhaled, coughing as the taste of copper joined the musky flavor of pine smoke. She yanked on her combat jacket, dulling the pain of the raindrops pounding into her skin, and hoped that the woven spider silk plates in the fabric would protect her from any more stray projectiles. _'Where are they coming from?! This is my home!'_

The fire was simply… _gone_ when she slammed into his door, breath coming in quick, painful gasps. The rain still poured down unabated, an explosion renting the night as a bomb detonated behind her and sprayed her wounds with mud. Arya pressed her forehead to the familiar surface and pounded on the door with the pommel of her sword as the ground shook. "Glenwing!"

There was no answer.

A flash of light to the left made her whip around, looking for the gun from which the muzzle flash had originated, only to feel a blade sink into her stomach.

 _White hot knives sliced twin, cauterized slits below each one of her ribs. The muscles of her abdomen flexed as she instinctively tried to pull her arms and legs from where they were cuffed to the wall in an attempt to protect her sides and stomach. Durza_ smiled _at her movements, tracing the outline of the toned muscle beneath her tan skin with a finger as he caught her eyes with his. Disgust welled up in her chest, and if she had been able to spit at him she would have. Being without water for two days straight had left her barely able to swallow._

 _He saw her expression, though, and his smile widened. He leaned forward and pressed his ice-cold forehead to her fevered one, his sharpened teeth glinting in the light cast by the glowing daggers. A bit of horror touched Arya's heart as she feared the worst. She couldn't fend off the advances of a Shade, not in the state she was in._

 _Then she threw back her head and screamed in pain and Durza laughed in glee as the daggers buried themselves halfway to their hilts between her ribs._

The shock sent Arya staggering back to hit the door again. "Glenwing, _let me in!_ " She shouted, kicking the door with her bare heel. " _Glen!_ "

 _She smelled hot cinnamon mints and burning batteries all interlaced with the pungent scent of motor oil._

 _And then she realized she could_ taste _them too, and with a jolt she felt a mouth over hers and a weight on her hips and her eyes flared open and she saw_ him _above her. He pulled back and smirked as he wrenched her head to the side by her hair and she immediately coughed up water and blood and bile. "_ Welcome back to the land of the living, little elf. You need not worry about dying on my watch. Even in the void, you will never escape me. _" And he laughed._

Arya let out a choked sob and slid to the ground, her body alight with pain from wounds that should have been nerveless scars and terror that she had never wanted to feel again. "Glen, please…" She leaned against the door, hugging her knees, and beat her head against the wood, trying to chase out the demons in her skull. "Please, I can't–"

 _There was so much blood. She didn't even know where he had hit her this time. He had screwed with her perception of pain again, amplifying it until the barest ghost of air on her cheek felt like a hot iron smashing into her face, and set about whipping her with a short bullwhip studded with bits of barbed wire. She had given up on holding in her screams after the first hour and a half. After the fourth she had given up on screaming entirely, her body too weak and her throat too torn to produce sound. And_ still _he cut her and whipped her and kicked her and strangled her, not even asking questions, only seeking to sate the spirits raged within his body._

 _Then it was black and she tasted the hot cinnamon again, the flavor reminding her of the mints Jörmundur had tried using to curb his smoking after his son was born, and the overwhelming smell of motor oil pervaded her senses. He wasn't on top of her this time, and she immediately rolled over and dry heaved, spitting and gasping and trying to rid her mouth of the tastes that she now associated with death._

She felt something hot sheeting down the side of her face, hotter than the rain that pounded down inches away. "I can't..." She whimpered, weakly raising her sword again and knocked the hilt against the door. Pain blossomed on the side of her head, adding the new sensation to the avalanche of agony that was crashing through her battered and bloody body. "I can't keep…"

 _A hand grabbed her bruised side– spat blood into his eyes– guard screamed in agony as she slammed her combat boot between his naked legs with a spray of blood– couldn't hear, couldn't see, couldn't taste or smell, it was all silence and nothing– acid sizzled in the trenches of her torn flesh, smelling like cooking meat– knife diving into her stomach over and over, the wounds healing shut after seconds as he methodically stabbed her, grinning like a child at play– pain like that shouldn't exist– claw shaped iron dipped down– blood, all that blood– his lips on hers as he breathed life into her body again and again to introduce her to new, unimaginable levels of pain–_

Arya threw her head back and screamed into the roaring thunder, " _Dear spirits, just let me DIE!_ "


	3. Night Terrors, Part 2

**WARNING: While there are no torture flashbacks in this section, Pt. 2 continues to deal with PTSD, as well as some phantom pain and a character who lost a limb in combat. If you are uncomfortable with this, please do not read, as I do not wish to offend anyone. I understand that PTSD and phantom pain are very real issues that many have to deal with, and I have no first hand or even second hand experience with PTSD, only night terrors, and I am getting all my information regarding how someone might react during a PTSD flashback episode, how to help them during one and phantom pain from the internet.  
Constructive criticism is very much appreciated.**

 **NIGHT TERRORS, Pt. 2**

Glenwing jerked, tearing himself from his waking dreams. He had heard the thunderstorm long before, and had not been bothered by it, but a new sound was echoing through his home. It was uniquely different from the storm outside, and the difference unsettled him.

Beneath the rumble of the thunder and the crash of the lightning he heard a faint ' _thudthudthud_ ' from his living area.

"Who the hell…" Concerned, the elf tossed off his sheets and pulled on a pair of sweats over his boxers. After more than seven months of learning how to do simple tasks both with and without his prosthetic, Glen managed to get the pants on only a few seconds slower than he would have with the prosthesis. He deftly pulled on a plain white t-shirt to cover the end of his scar covered shoulder, the prosthetic charging on its stand beside his bed, and made his way to the front door.

Instead of the louder bangs that he had heard earlier, the only sound emitting from the door now were a series of soft, regular ' _thunk...thunk...thunk_ ' noises. He frowned, confused, and peered out the viewer into the night.

It took him a long moment. He first only saw rain and brief flashes of lightning. Then he saw a sword lying in the mud, a pale hand holding it in a death grip. A new sound, soft and pleading, reached his ears now that he was closer, and with a shock he threw the door open to the raging storm.

Arya tumbled into his home, drenched with rain water from head to toe and clothed in her casual, day-to-day combat gear. There was blood and mud on the side of her face, the red liquid gushing from where she had been repeatedly hitting her head on the door. Besides the cut she looked physically sound to him, so he crouched low to the ground and slipped his remaining arm under both of hers in a cross chest carry and gently pulled her fully inside the house.

Once she was inside Glenwing returned to a crouch and, supporting the woman's weight with his chest, slipped his head under one of her arms and shifted his grip to her opposite side. "Hey, can you hear me? Arya?"

"Let me die…." The woman's head lolled against his shoulder, eyes half open. "It hurts...can't do it again…."

"Not going to happen, Cee-Oh. You're a tough lil' spitfire of a lady, so we're going to stand on three, okay? One, two, three!" Glen heaved them both up, staggering as the added weight nearly unbalanced him. He managed to get to the couch and fall backwards, wincing as his former commander's elbow dug into his stomach. "Good job, Ari. Good job." A flicker passed through Arya's eyes at the words.

"It hurts…" The woman gripped his shirt, appearing a little more aware of her surroundings. "Glen...I can't do this…."

"Take it easy, Arya. Don't worry, you're not alone. Can I take your jacket off? You're soaking wet." Arya shook her head, looking terrified at the very idea. "Okay, that's okay. Can we at least get you washed up, rinse out that cut on your he–"

" _NO!_ " The shout came both verbally and mentally, a short spike of terror that left a sizable dent in his mental defenses. Glenwing leapt off the couch and away from his friend as a pistol suddenly appeared between them, torn from the belt slung haphazardly from shoulder to hip. "No water!" She shouted at him, a mixture of fury and pure fear on her blood streaked face.

Then the gun slipped from her fingers, the color draining from her skin as she wrapped her arms around her middle. "'Think 'm gonna be sick."

Glen carefully moved behind couch and to the kitchen and snatched up the bucket he used for cleaning. He came back around and set it in Arya's lap, grabbing the pistol and unlatching the belt as he did so. She didn't comment, only slid to the floor and dry heaved into the small bucket, coughing and sputtering as nothing came up.

When she finished, shakily curling into a half ball on her side, Glen sat cross legged next to her on the floor and leaned against the couch. "You okay?"

Arya shook her head. "It hurts."

"Your stomach?"

"Back. Head. Everything."

Glen nodded. Her difficulty speaking and combat ready attire had already clued him in on what was happening, feeling an ache in his chest as he watched her try to fight the flashbacks and phantoms in her head.

"Can I touch your shoulder?" He asked softly. The woman nodded, and when the male elf gently set his remaining hand on her arm she grabbed it and held onto it as if seeking a lifeline back into the present.

They sat like that for a long time, the rain pounding on the roof and the thunder rumbling through the forest.

Arya slowly seemed to relax slightly. Her grip on Glen's hand never released, but she moved closer to him, her upper back lightly brushing the outside of his leg. He took it as a sign that she was feeling a bit more grounded and asked, "Can I heal your head?"

"Yes." She mumbled, exhausted and pale. Whatever she had seen and felt had ripped through what little progress in sleep she had made, and it left her cold and shaking. "Please."

"I might need my kit." Glen told her softly, squeezing her shoulder. "I need to get up and get it. Will you be okay?"

"…Maybe."

"Do you want to hold on to something? Dog tags? A pillow?" The medic smiled as his former CO reached up and dragged one of the small pillows off the couch and released him. With her free hand she clutched at the dog tags around her neck, running her thumb over the raised letters of each. "Okay. I'll be right back."

Using slow movements Glenwing pushed himself up, grabbing the couch armrest for support. His knees and his lower back popped as he came out of the hunched position, and he rolled his neck as he retrieved his prosthetic from his room. The ruddy orange and white streaked limb locked on with a familiar click and hiss and the medic flexed his metal fingers, touching to tip of each one to his thumb in the now automatic check on the link to his nerves.

Satisfied with his findings, Glen opened his closet and pulled out a dusty backpack similar to the one Arya had in her room. He unlocked it with the thumb scanner and dug out his belt and the attached medkit, then grabbed an armful of towels. He was about to return to the living room, stepping out into the short hall, when the closed door across from his room caught his eye.

' _That might actually help._ '

A few moments later he was back at the couch, setting his collected items down. "I'm back." Arya nodded a little and Glen sat, patting his leg. The woman scooted closer and rested her head on the offered knee, familiar with the methods he'd had for caring for head wounds she or Fäolin would acquire in the field. "I'm going to ask you a question that might scare you. There's all sorts of debris in this cut. I can rinse it out with cleaning solution or I can clear it with magic."

Glenwing saw the other elf's throat convulse, and for a moment he was afraid she would slip back into her memories or start gagging again. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she gripped her tags in a white knuckled grip as she shook her head. "No…water. No water."

"Clear it with magic, then?"

"…Magic."

As Glen gently moved her mud caked hair away from the still trickling wound, his mind reverted back to that of the battlefield medic and bodyguard he had been before that night months ago. The cut wasn't deep, but like all head wounds it had bled profusely. The mud had helped stop the bleeding somewhat as it dried, and with a light touch he gently brushed the larger pieces of dirt away before breaching the flow of magic in his mind and murmuring a spell to remove the debris from the gash. Once it was clear, he set about healing it completely.

"There." Glen set his hand on Arya's arm as the last bit of skin flowed together. "All healed up." To his confusion, Arya shook her head. "Are you hurt somewhere else?" She nodded. "Tell me."

The woman hugged the pillow closer to her chest and buried her face into it, pulling away from her friend. "Back…Back's open again."

Glenwing felt a tingle shoot down his metal arm. There would be much more blood if the scars on her back had opened. He almost asked ' _are you sure?_ ' before he caught himself, one of his own memories giving him pause.

 _He sat in Rhunön's shop, remaining hand clenched at his hip as he screamed at the sky "_ It still hurts! _" Then the wizened blacksmith had marched out from her forge, interrupted from shaping the plates of his prosthetic, and slapped him across the face hard, shouting for him to unclench his fingers. When he finally did she seized his hand and slapped it on the end of his stump, her rough fingers holding his in place._

 _"_ Feel that? _" Rhunön had snapped. "_ It's _gone_! You have no nerves down there anymore. It hurts, I know. But you have to make your brain remember that it is gone. _" Glen had shivered and tears streamed down his face as he did as she told him, rubbing the thick pink scars that marked where his shoulder now ended._

 _And the pain had eased._

If it felt real to her, he had to show her that the past was not lingering in the present.

"Alright. Then we need to take your jacket off." Arya shivered but still eased herself up from the floor and pulled her arms from the sleeves, shedding the garment by tugging the hem on the back so that it fell from her shoulders.

Just as he had suspected, Glen saw no blood on her shirt as he moved to sit on the couch behind her. The wet olive green fabric was darkened by rainwater but showed no telltale, pitch-black patches where blood would have seeped through.

"Arya, I'm going to pull the back of your shirt up, okay?" Glenwing warned her as he brushed her hair over her shoulder. When she gave a shaky nod of approval, he carefully pulled the cloth up until it was midway up her back and held out his hand by her side. "Give me your hand." When she paused, Glen touched two fingers where he knew the Yawë was inked into her skin. " _Vae hávr yawë, fyrn-darmthral._ "

She relaxed, the undeniable truth of his words putting her more at ease, and let him take her hand.

Slowly, gently, Glenwing guided Arya's hand to the exposed skin of her back. She flinched when her fingers first brushed it, then sucked in a breath when he ran her hand over the first scar, the burns that raked her side. When she didn't react beyond that, he continued, letting her fingertips glide over the healed rents in her skin.

Finally, he touched her palm flat against the center of her lower back. Her fingers felt blindly for open wounds but only found scar tissue. Glenwing released his hold on her hand and let her feel along a nearly inch wide hypertrophic scar that reached to her hip, checking under her own control that what she felt was real.

After a long moment, Arya spoke, her voice no longer strained with pain but slightly disbelieving and oddly awed. "They never opened."

"They never opened." Glenwing confirmed, again abandoning his spot on the couch to sit next to her on the floor. "How do you feel?"

Arya was silent, then she grunted, "Sore as all hell."

"That's expected. You headbutted my door hard enough to make a Kull proud."

"I probably woke up half of Tildarí hall." The woman groaned and put her face in her hands, mortified, then pulled back with a mildly surprised expression. "I'm covered in mud."

Glen couldn't help but grin a little. "Yes. Yes, you are. You wouldn't let me clean you up. You, my friend, are in desperate need of a shower."

Arya shuddered from head to toe and her eyes flicked to the window, where rain continued to pour down from the heavens. "I don't want to be near water for a while." She rubbed her upper arms as goose bumps flared over her damp skin.

"Here." Glenwing picked up the jacket he had retrieved from the closed room.

His friend accepted it gratefully and pulled it on, then froze. Her pupils first contracted then dilated in a split second, and for a moment Glen feared his action had triggered another attack. Then Arya hugged her sides and tugged the hood over her shoulder, inhaling a scent that Glenwing couldn't detect and smiled slightly.

"This is Fäolin's, isn't it?" She didn't look at him with any anger or accusation, only a strange relief as if the scent of her lost love had chased away the final demon lingering in her mind.

"Yeah." Glenwing grinned back at her. "I figured you could use something familiar."

"Thank you, Glen." They sat together in comfortable silence, the fluffy towels bunched around them on the floor. "What time is it?"

Glen checked the digital readout on his arm. "Ah, almost Oh-Four-Hundred." Arya started to stand, apologizing profusely for waking him up in the middle of the night. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down. "Hey, hey, stay! I'm not letting you out of my sight for a while. You nearly beat my door in with your _head_ , so I need to watch you for signs of a concussion." He chuckled. "I'll need your help fixing the dent you put in the paneling when morning comes, too."

Arya paused, considering it. It was still raining, and she didn't want to risk triggering another episode by going out in the deluge. Plus, she very well couldn't go back home until she had washed up, which might be some time in coming as the very thought of even wiping her face with a wet washcloth made her throat tighten. She could change clothes from the go bag she kept in Fäolin's room and just tell Islanzadí that Glen had called her over early in the morning for another lesson on how to repair his prosthetic. If she even asked.

"Okay, fine. Can I take the couch?" A flicker of confusion flashed across Glenwing's face, and he started to gesture back towards the closed room in the hallway. "I don't…I don't want to sleep in his bed without him." Arya whispered, jamming her fists into the pockets of Fäolin's jacket.

Glen's face softened. "Yeah. Yeah, I get that. You can take the couch. You know where everything is, right?" She nodded. "Okay. I'll keep my door open, so if anything happens all you need to do is call me and I'll be out here in a heartbeat. All set? Okay." He smiled and stood, patting his former commander on the head while she swatted his arm in good natured retaliation. "Good night, Arya."

"Glen, wait." He turned to see Arya leaning with her arms folded over the back of the couch. She touched her first two fingers to her lips. " _Elrun ono, Glenwing-Vor, fyrn-darmthrell._ " And she added in the human tongue, "For everything. You pulled me out of a second hell."

Glenwing bowed with his orange fist twisted on his chest. " _Onr astorí, Arya Dröttningu, fyrn-darmthral._ " He straightened and moved into his room with a tired wave. " _Slytha mor'raren._ "

And for the first time in weeks, she did.

~~~

 **Translations** **  
(Most of these are very rough and cobbled together from words that are similar to what I was trying to convey with a few alterations, so it is not exact.)**

 _Vae hávr yawë, fyrn-darmthral–_ 'You can trust me, war-sister.' Literally translates to 'We have a bond of trust, war sister.'

 _Elrun ono, Glenwing-Vor, fyrn-darmthrell–_ 'Thank you, Glenwing, war-brother.' Vor is an honorific for a close male friend

 _Onr astorí, Arya Dröttningu, fyrn darmthral–_ 'You're welcome, princess Arya, war-sister.'

 _Slytha mor'raren–_ 'Sleep peacefully/sleep well.' Literally translates to 'Sleep peaceful.'


	4. MurtaghJudge Me Not

**A/N:** Hey! Time change! Set directly after Brom should have died, but Murtagh somehow saved him. He was unconscious for a while, and this occurs right after Eragon reveals who the 'mysterious stranger' is to him.

Also, please read Murtagh's lines in a mildly thick Scottish accent. The audiobook has pretty much set Murtagh having a Scottish accent in stone for me, and it is a big part on how I hear him when I write.

 **MURTAGH/JUDGE ME NOT,  
SNIPPET #1**

 _Judge me not by my father's sins but by the deeds that I have wrought.  
Judge me not by the deeds that I have wrought but by the times I have stayed my hand.  
Judge me not by my desperate actions but by what drove me to such desperation.  
Judge me not at all, my friend, for this life has never been mine to live._

 _Judge me not._

Brom's eyes flashed when he heard the name. He stood stiffly, briefly touching his bruised side, and jerked his head to the opening of the cave. "Outside. You and I are going to have a little chat, _Murtagh._ "

' _This doesn't look good._ ' Eragon whispered to Saphira, loosening Zar'roc in its sheath as subtly as he could while he tried to quash his worried confusion. Murtagh had helped them, yes, and the young man seemed nice enough. He was definitely hiding something though, and like everyone else, his secrets could make him dangerous.

Saphira shifted and a harsh scratching, grating sound rose from her ivory claws as she sank them into the sandstone, preparing to leap to Brom's aid if needed. ' _Let's see what Brom does. We only have two choices with Murtagh now. He's seen me, he's seen you, and he obviously knows about Brom._ ' Eragon's question floated across their mental link, and Saphira answered it gently. ' _I'm afraid we must either keep him with us, Little One, or kill him._ '

A cold stone lodged itself in Eragon's gut at her words, soft and sorrowful as they were. Saphira disliked the idea of killing Murtagh just as much as her partner, but deep in her mind Eragon sensed the grim conviction that she would do anything she deemed necessary to keep him safe.

They both followed Brom and Murtagh with their eyes as they left the sandstone cave; Brom's face an angry scowl and Murtagh's posture tense and wary.

' _If it comes down to it, I'll defend him._ ' Eragon decided. ' _Murtagh saved our lives, and I'd rather not see him be repaid by death for the risk he took. Besides, Brom should know not to judge a man by his name alone, whatever Murtagh's means. Right?_ '

Saphira didn't answer, only curled her tail around his back and kept her gaze on the cave's opening, glittering eyes bright in the gloom.

Brom stalked beyond the cave entrance, moving far enough away so that Eragon and Saphira could not hear the exchange he was about to have with their unlikely rescuer. The young man followed behind him, eyes darting over the landscape as he scanned for danger beyond the former Rider leading him.

The old man stopped when he was satisfied with the distance and pulled Murtagh into a natural alcove, shielding them from the unrelenting sun that was dipping below the horizon as well as prying eyes. Brom crossed his arms, trying to contain the old rage welling up within him, and looked the younger man in the eye. "I know _exactly_ who you are, _Murtagh Morzansson._ " He spat.

"Says the legendary Rider Brom, slayer of the demon playing as a man, Morzan." Murtagh leaned back slightly and crossed his arms as well, his accent thick with emotion and an instinctive sass that was reserved for sixteen to eighteen year old boys and sarcastic dragons. "I should be thanking you. That man you call my _father_ was nothing but a torturer to me and my mother."

Brom's heart skipped a beat when Murtagh mentioned his mother. He shoved the lapse aside and growled, "So you stalk the boy and me? Trying to get your thanks in? Don't make me laugh, whelp. What is your real motive behind saving Eragon and Saphira?"

"I want to fight the king. I fight my own wars, and saving the last free Rider and his dragon seemed like a bloody good way to start my campaign." The young man jerked his chin in the direction of their camp. "He's a good kid, but naive as all hell. And you're getting on in years, ain't you, old man? You need another gun to watch your back when the kid and Saphira can't."

Despite Brom seeing flickers of Morzan's face in Murtagh's features, he couldn't refute his logic. Brom _was_ getting old, the loss of his dragon dampening the magic that slowed his aging. He had all his wits about him, true, but he couldn't physically be everywhere at once to protect Eragon in the boy's many lapses in judgement as well as guard himself. Murtagh had already proven useful enough by driving off the Ra'zac and saving Brom's life, and he had displayed a hatred for the King, Morzan and the Empire's servants that seemed to rival Brom's own, all while keeping a cool and level head.

"So, what, are you asking to travel with us?" Brom grunted. Circumstances were forcing his hand, and it appeared that the gods of Fate were going to have their laugh and force the son of his worst to enemy fight by his side.

"Aye, if you'll have me. I can carry my own weight."

"Fine. You can travel with us. _For now._ " Murtagh relaxed somewhat, a bit of a grin twitching his lips. It looked too much like Morzan's smirk for his tastes, and with a savage growl Brom grabbed the young man by the front of his jacket and slammed him back against the sandstone wall. "But if you show even a single _iota_ of Morzan's mentality, take _one step_ down the path he walked, or make _any_ move against Eragon, Saphira or me, I swear on all that is holy in this world and the next that I'll have Saphira eat you alive piece by square-inch piece, and that's only _after_ I'm done with you! Do you understand me, _whelp?_ "

Murtagh bristled, fire lighting in his dark eyes. "I'm nothing like him." He hissed, and shoved Brom away. "I've spent my whole damn life trying to prove that. Maybe if I can convince _you,_ of all bloody people, then I can finally live in peace!"

And with that he stalked back to the cave Eragon and Saphira were waiting in, shoulders rigid beneath the hardened leather pads haphazardly sewn to his jacket. Brom watched him go, the chill of lavender dusk finally falling over the sandstone formation, and pulled out his pipe, tapping it against his palm.

As the old Rider filled the bowl and lit it, inhaling the sweet smoke, he glanced at Murtagh one more time as he disappeared into the cave. The young man had relaxed somewhat, preparing himself to explain the situation to Eragon and Saphira no doubt, and the tension in his stride had eased. Brom tore his gaze away, looking out over the purplish gray landscape, and released the cloud of smoke with a tired sigh.

There was no denying it. While Murtagh bore much of his father's face, his relaxed movements, light of step and somehow savagely graceful, were undeniably Selena's.


	5. Blue-BlackJudge You Not

**MODERN INHERITNACE:  
BLUE-BLACK ARROGANT PRICK/JUDGE YOU NOT**

Murtagh rolled over, trying to find that one, inexplicably comfortable yet contorted position that would finally let him sleep. He was tired, _very_ tired, after the headlong rush across the Hadarac and had been looking forward to the rest their hard won lead would bring.

But after at least a week and a half of traveling by night and sleeping by day, suddenly becoming diurnal again was not as easy as he had hoped.

He rolled over once more, mentally grumbling to himself when he saw that Eragon was sound asleep. The boy was tucked up next to Saphira, two thirds of his body under her wing and his head resting on a pile of unused clothes and blankets. He looked quite comfortable, his mouth open slightly and even a bit of drool on the side of his face.

Murtagh sat up, suddenly realizing that Arya was no longer stretched out near Saphira's foreleg where she had previously laid down to sleep. The blanket was still there, but neither the elf nor her combat-jacket-turned-pillow were to be seen.

"–rather not go there so soon. I've only been able to teach them how to survive, and I've been having a tough time doing even that." Murtagh whipped his head around as Brom's rough whisper reached his ears. Two dim silhouettes sat on the short, rocky protrusion that hid their camp, keeping watch over the landscape. "Eragon has the uncanny ability to get into trouble the moment he moves more than fifty yards from Saphira. If we went to the forest now, they'd laugh at all of us."

A light scoff sounded as the slimmer of the two figures shifted, pulling a leg up to their chest. "No, they'd sing praises to Saphira and pat you on the head for trying your hardest. Eragon would need a bit more work before they would go crazy for him, but they'd still clap politely, I'm sure."

"...You're probably right."

"Yeah, well, I know my people. Always gotta be polite and proper in the pines."

Murtagh grabbed his rifle and slung the strap across his chest before clambering up the rocks. Both Brom and Arya turned to him as he heaved himself over the edge.

"Can't sleep." He said at their questioning gazes. "Bloody body clock is shot to hell. Mind if I join you?"

Brom gestured with his unlit pipe to an open patch of stone. "Sit yourself down, then." They arranged themselves in a roughly triangular position, each able to take in a section of the area while also carrying on polite conversation.

But, knowing the three distinct personalities arrayed before them, polite conversation wasn't likely to happen.

In the quiet that followed, Murtagh became increasingly aware that Arya was studying him with a disturbing intensity. Her eyes flicked over his face, darting from one feature to the next, and he subconsciously leaned back a bit.

"...What?" Murtagh leaned back a little more, finally breaking the silence. "Oi, I know you're taken in by all _this_ –" he extravagantly gestured to his face and body with both hands, hiding how unsettled he was with his usual sassy smugness, "–like the other ladies, but no need to try and devour me with your eyes, lass."

Still intent on examining him the elf responded offhandedly, "Don't flatter yourself. And what did I tell you about calling me that?" Before Murtagh could protectively grab his rifle to prevent the magazine from being shoved up his nose, Arya suddenly sat bolt upright and snapped her fingers. "Got it!" She looked to Brom, a slight frown on her face. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Brom grunted, clamping his teeth on his pipe stem. With the amount of chomping the old man did on it, Murtagh wouldn't be surprised if it had some magic worked into the wood to prevent it from splintering.

"What's going on?" Murtagh crossed his arms. He didn't _like it_ when the two elder members of their little group shared secrets or their weird little nonverbal signals. "If it involves me, I have a right–"

Arya cut him off and pointed to his right eye. "Blue." Then his left. "Black." Her lip twitched into a surprisingly fierce snarl. "Arrogant, psychopathic, warmongering, _traitorous, race-murdering PRICK._ "

Brom let out an uncharacteristic snort, pulling his pipe out of his mouth. Murtagh realized it was a choked off laugh, and scowled at him. "Why is it that everyone only remembers my father, huh? He's dead. Let me live _my_ life, not _his._ "

"I wasn't laughing at that. I've just never heard the bastard described so...simply." Brom chuckled again. "I'm surprised it took you this long, Arya."

"It's not like I shook Morzan's hand and got to know him as well as you bloody did." Arya tossed her braid over her shoulder and clasped her hands together, her anger fading. "Besides, I never thought he'd have a son." She regarded the aforementioned offspring with one of her signature blank expressions, eyes searching his face again. "His mother must have been the Black Hand, wasn't she, Brom? You must have known."

Just like before, Brom shifted slightly at the mention of Murtagh's mother, a strange light flashing through his startlingly blue eyes. It was gone just as quickly as it had appeared, though, and the old man gave an affirmative grunt.

"Oi!" Murtagh snapped, rage starting to bubble in his gut. He could feel the vein on his forehead starting to stand out, and that made him even angrier. " _Stop talking about me as if I'm not even HERE!_ " Both adults looked to him. "I am _not_ my father's son! So judge me not by his actions! I am my own man!"

A faint smile touched Arya's lips, and she nodded. "Aye. Don't worry, Murtagh. I judge you not by your father but by you alone. Family shouldn't be the sole point on which someone is judged, especially if they were not raised by them." The elf knit her fingers together and rested her chin on them, expression again serious. "Your father was a terrible person, and I'm sure out of all of us in Alagaësia, you know that fact better than anyone. But, unlike some children who would turn their rage against the entire world, you have chosen to take your anger and skills and do what you can to fight against what Morzan and Galbatorix wrought. Unless you're a spy, in which case I'd congratulate you on getting this far, and then promptly kill you."

Brom nodded sagely in agreement, then locked eyes with Murtagh. "Oi. I'm only going to say this once, so listen carefully, whelp." Murtagh's snarl returned at the old man's use of his usual, insulting name for him, but Brom put his hands up. "Peace. Just hear me out this one time. I won't repeat what I'm about to say. Ever."

He took his pipe from between his lips and rolled it between his fingers before again looking Murtagh in the eye. "You've proved yourself quite a bit since you've joined us. I can say with confidence that you are not your father's son, and I knew the bastard since he was younger than you are now. You have a sense of morality and sound judgement that he never had, even if your justifications for that judgement are usually driven by your survival code." Murtagh's scowl fell. As Brom spoke, the young man's expression turned from one of red-faced frustration to disbelief, his mouth slightly open as the old man pointed the stem of his pipe at him. "You've been...invaluable, in helping me protect Eragon and Saphira. And you probably saved the Varden by rescuing Arya while at Gil'ead, as she's the only one who can secure the elves support for the rebellion again.

"What I'm saying is that I judged you prematurely. And I... _apologize._ "

Murtagh stared at the old Rider, trying to find the words to explain the unexpected welling of emotion in his chest. "Brom, I…I don't know how to..." He faltered, and resumed gaping at him.

"You can start by closing your mouth." Brom snapped gruffly. "You'll catch flies like that, whelp."

Arya raised her eyebrows and leaned towards him. "I think you broke the poor boy."

The young man shook himself out of his stupor. "No, no, it's just…. I figured if I could get you, Brom, of all people, to see that I'm not some demon spawn then I could live my life in peace. And now that you just confirmed it, I _can't._ I have to keep fighting the King."

Brom snorted and stuck his pipe back in his mouth. "Oh, you're a demon's spawn, there's no denying that." He growled. "You're just not acting like a demon. Kudos to you, whelp."

"Lay off him, Brom. You can't just turn around like that after giving him such a heartfelt speech." Arya swatted the old man on the arm, to which he grumbled and pushed her.

Murtagh rubbed his face, feeling even more drained after the emotional joyride the two had just put him on. "Bloody children, the both of you."

Arya smirked. "I'm not the one up past his bedtime."

The young man threw his hands up. "Alright! Alright, I get it. I'll try to sleep again." He stood and moved to start climbing back down to the clearing, then paused. "Thanks for what you said. The both of you."

"Don't get all sappy on us." Brom growled, crossing his arms. "You still have quite a bit of proving to do, whelp."

"Sure, Brom. Whatever you say." He smiled, and for a moment Brom saw a flash of bright teeth and dark hair, a laugh echoing in his ears. Then both the memory and Murtagh were gone, the man clambering down the short cliff to collapse on his sleeping bag.

The old Rider blinked, trying to clear his head, and found Arya regarding him with a slightly concerned expression. "Oh, what? Are you going to start telling me what _my_ father looked like now?"

Arya shook her head, fringes of hair that had escaped her braid flicking about her face. "No. Just thought I saw something." They lapsed into comfortable silence, once again facing out over the land. A warm, dry breeze wafted through the woods from the nearby Hadarac and brushed over them, carrying the scent of the sands.

"It was hell crossing that." Brom muttered, chewing thoughtfully on his pipe again and silently lamenting that he couldn't light it without revealing their position. "But at least we're nearly to the mountains now. Another week and a half or so and we'll be with the Varden."

Arya hummed softly in agreement, her farseeing eyes picking out the distant campfires of the Urgal party following them. They blazed like bright candles to her sight, and she counted twenty before the camp stretched beyond her vision.

They stayed up for a while longer, talking about this and that and hashing out the possible responses the Varden would have to their arrival. It was an hour before Arya looked up at the sky, noting the new positions of the stars, and said, "You should catch some rest, old man. Your watch is over by my reckoning."

"You keep calling me old, Arya. I think my physique speaks for itself; I'm still quite spry, thank you very much. " Brom stood and stretched his stiff joints, pointedly ignoring the chorus of pops and crackles that dampened his previous statement as the elf smirked. "I'll wake Eragon for his watch."

Arya waved him off. "Leave the kid be. Both he and Saphira have earned their sleep. I can take his watch."

"Again?" Arya shrugged. "You can't keep this up. You need to sleep just as much as we do, probably more since you're still healing."

"I'm fine, Brom. Really."

Brom frowned. In the dim light of the stars he could see that she was lying. Her skin had regained its usual tanned tone after trekking through the Hadarac, but over the last day or so she had paled slightly. Despite the cooler temperatures, a slight sheen of sweat was on her brow and she wore her combat jacket zipped all the way up as if she were freezing. "Anything you want to tell me?" She shook her head. "Arya, I can tell when something's up. Did another wound get infected again?"

"No." And she added firmly, "I'm fine."

"If you keep trying to deal with things like this on your–"

" _Brom!_ " The old Rider's eyes snapped to hers. Arya's voice had taken on a sharp edge and held an unmistakable ring of authority that, despite the conversation they had held earlier, reminded Brom that some things were hereditary no matter the differences between parent and child. "Leave it. I'll be fine. We can talk about it later. Just go to sleep."

He regarded her with a steady gaze, keeping their eyes locked. His suspicions were confirmed when it was Arya who broke contact, looking down and away from him. "I hope you're right. And I hope you will tell me when whatever it is gets worse." He said. "Remember what I told Murtagh, Arya. You're the only one who can get the Queen start supporting the Varden again. So for not just your sake, but the entire damn Varden's, I hope you're right." And he started the short descent back to camp.

Arya let out a breath and looked up at the pale stars. They twinkled above her, smugly winking as if they knew, as she did, that fire was burning in her veins.

 _The Shade smiled, pointed teeth gleaming. "_ It won't kill you right away, little elf. It won't even _start_ to kill you until I tell it to. _"_ _Arya gritted her teeth as the clear fluid in the syringe slid into her wrist and rushed through her bloodstream. "_ My own modified Skilna bragh. You know, little elf, if you escape, and you run fast enough, you _just might_ make it to your people or the Varden before it destroys you. _"_ _And he winked at her, as if sharing in some private joke._

The elf closed her eyes and let her head fall back. She had to decide. Continue traveling with the others, leading not only the Urgals to the Varden's doorstep, but Durza as well and probably slowing the group down until she succumbed to the poison in her blood, or try to run to Ceris and deliver a dying declaration that would force the Queen to resume aiding the Varden.

No, she couldn't do that. It would lead Durza right to the elvish city.

Her last choice was grim. Leave the group at the mouth of the Beartooth River and turn back to the Hadarac. She could slow the Urgals as best she could, and die a warrior's death. It was preferable than dying of thirst or poison in the sands.

Another swirl of wind flowed from the aforementioned desert. Arya sighed as it ghosted over her skin, her nerves tingling with the first uncomfortable prickles of pain, and looked back to where Brom was kicking his sleeping bag out on the ground. "Yeah, Brom," She murmured. "I hope so too."


	6. Hotel Pit Stop

**MODERN INHERITANCE  
SLEEPING ARRANGEMENTS/HOTEL PIT STOP**

"Good evening, ma'am. Are there any rooms available?" Brom smiled at the desk attendant, ignoring her ill concealed disgust at the grime covering himself and the young men behind him. It wasn't the finest hotel in the world, but it was still cleaner than a roadside motel and had a nice touch of class to it for their higher rates.

It was the only place that still had the vacancy sign on, so Brom had grudgingly agreed to see if they had a room that could accommodate them. Everyone needed a boost in morale, and a night in a bed and a hot shower would do the trick to lift their spirits. It was isolated enough that it would take a long time for any soldiers to reach them if anyone recognized them, and Saphira was well hidden in the small forest nearby. She could respond to any danger and was far enough away to be virtually undetectable.

The clerk sighed and clicked a few keys on the bulky computer in front of her. "It's one-thirty-two Crowns for a two queen bedroom. Non-smoking." She glared at the pipe poking out of Brom's upper pocket. "Two hundred for cleaning fees if you smoke inside."

"I understand. Do you have a room with a window, by any chance?"

"It's ten extra Crowns." The woman all but sneered at him.

Behind him Brom heard Eragon shift, obviously upset about the clerk's clear plan of pocketing the extra money. Murtagh didn't react, his eyes constantly scanning the room and marking exits. He surreptitiously tugged the strap holding his holstered rifle a little lower, uneasy in the open lobby.

Brom nodded calmly despite the extra charge. "We'll take it. Do you have any roller beds so my boys don't have to split sheet? The kid kicks like a horse." Grumbling, the woman stood and pulled a folded up rolling cot, complete with a mattress and blankets, from the small room behind the desk. "Thank you."

Brom traded payment for the keys, extra bedding and toiletries and bid the sour attendant a good night. Murtagh grabbed the cot and the trio moved into the elevator, squeezing to one side to fit the roller bed in along with their packs. As the doors slid shut and they began ascending, Eragon leaned over to Brom. "How's Arya going to–"

"Shut up. Not here." Murtagh hissed, keeping his eyes forward. When Eragon shot him an annoyed glare, the older boy subtly gestured to the small camera in the corner. It's little red light was flashing.

The three exited the elevator in silence, quickly making their way to their room while checking as many exits as possible without arousing suspicion. Whenever he found a camera, Murtagh would point it out to Eragon and Brom as inconspicuously as he could. It would be best to keep out of the security tapes in case the soldiers came across the hotel after they left.

Upon finally reaching the room, Brom locked all the available bolts, chains and electronic locks he could as Murtagh unfolded the cot. Eragon checked the bathroom to make sure everything was in order, tested out the small A/C unit, then sat on the bed with a sigh.

" _Now_ will you explain how Arya is going to get in here?" The boy asked, stretching tiredly. "Don't tell me she's going to stay out there with Saphira all night. She deserves a shower more than any of us."

Murtagh snorted, muttering something along the lines of the elf desperately _needing_ one instead of deserving it, and pushed the cot into the corner so he would have a clear line of sight of both the door and the window from the side. Brom gestured to the aforementioned window, which was parallel to the bed Eragon was sitting on, and grunted, "Open that."

Perturbed, Eragon did as he was asked and opened the window fully, the metal frame bumping the outer wall. A humid breeze swept in, lending the room the scent of damp leaves and warm night air. The young Rider braced his hands on the sill and leaned out to breathe it in.

A soft series of scuffing noises were all the warning he had before Arya was suddenly staring him in the eyes, comfortably resting her chin on the sill as she crouched with her feet against the outer wall and sure fingers gripping the windowsill. "Well hello."

Eragon jerked back, startled. They were on the fourth floor. "How the hell did you just–"

"Fun fact, Eragon. On average my species can jump at _least_ ten feet in the air when we put some effort into it." Eragon backed away from the window as the woman 'hopped' into a sitting position on the windowsill and then tumbled backwards into the room. "Don't gape. I parkoured most of it. It's forty bloody feet up, even we can't do that."

Brom tossed his bag on the bed closest to the door and started pulling off his coat. "Did anyone see you?"

Arya shook her head. "No. If they did, it was at a distance."

"Good thing we had you switch clothes." The old man grunted.

Before they had gotten within five leagues of the tiny roadside town, Brom had suggested the elf change out of her fatigues and into something a _little_ less conspicuous.

 _Arya raised an eyebrow. "_ Yeah, great. I'll just change back into blood covered prison clothes. I'll be _totally_ inconspicuous. Hell, I'll look like a human, because changing pants _definitely changes the shape of my fucking ears."_

 _Murtagh scratched his stubbled chin, wanting to get back into civilization only long enough to start hating it again. "_ I might have an idea. _"_ _He stepped up and put his back to hers, careful not to lean his weight against her covered injuries. With a flat hand the young man compared their heights and nodded in confirmation when he found only a miniscule difference between them. "_ We're pretty much the same height. I have some old jeans in my bag. _"_ __

 _Meanwhile, Eragon was furiously digging in his backpack, searching for the winter clothes he had first set out on their journey wearing. He didn't want Murtagh being the only one to come up with something, not in front of Arya. Saphira snorted, teasing him quietly about it, but he ignored her and triumphantly pulled out what he had been looking for. "_ Here! This could at least cover your ears. It's not perfect, but it'll be good in a pinch. _"_ __

 _Arya took the offered article and examined it before chuckling, "_ Actually, this is an old trick we used to do with Varden when we went drinking. Ah, the benefits of beanies. _"_ _And she put it on, pulling the sides of the knit hat down to cover the most obvious marker of her race._

Dressed as she was, Arya looked almost no different from a human woman, if a bit on the angsty side. Dark loose jeans, grey hoodie, black shirt and a dark navy blue beanie tugged low over the tips of her pointed ears certainly gave her a brooding look, especially when leaning against the wall of a hotel and shooting glowering stares at anyone that even glanced at her. As long as no one got close enough to examine her facial structure, she would pass for human.

"Who wants to shower first?" Brom asked, already laying out a fresh shirt and a toothbrush on the bed. "Whoever does will be taking the laundry to the coin washer and gets to guard it once everyone is done."

When Arya shook her head and Eragon just shrugged, Murtagh stepped up. "Ah, I don't care. I'll go first if you don't want it, Brom."

"All yours." The old man gave him one of the extra mini toiletry kits he had bought. "Feel free to shave. There's a razor in there, fuzz face." Murtagh grunted, subconsciously passing a hand over his newly grown ragged stubble of a beard, and locked the door to the bathroom behind him. A few moments later the sound of the shower running drifted through the door.

Brom turned to Arya and tossed her the extra bedding he had picked up. "Here. Bandages. Better than nothing. You can use the comforter for padding the floor. If someone comes in to check it would be best if you're at least out of easy sight."

"Was planning on sleeping there anyway." She grabbed the comforter and gestured to the gap between one of the beds and the wall. "Do you mind if take the space next to your bed, Eragon?"

"Yeah, sure, go ahead." He smiled, happy that the elf had chosen to be closer to him than to Brom. "You can take some of the pillows too, I only need one." She nodded her thanks and threw her makeshift bedding down, padding over it in oblong, looping circles to settle the lumps before adding one of the pillows. "So, um...you said you used beanies when you were with the Varden to go out drinking. Don't they know you're an elf? I mean, they have to, right? Why can't you just go as is?"

Arya shrugged and sat next to him on the bed. Before answering, she unsheathed a mid-sized combat knife from the side of her boot and set about tearing the sheet Brom had given her into palm wide strips. "They know. And plenty of them are unsettled by us. It took a while to get used to the stares and the occasional...remark, I should say. When something is misunderstood, it is often feared, and going out for a drink in one of Farthen Dur's crowded bars with our ears clearly on display could turn the atmosphere from fun to awkward in a hot second." Finished with the sheet, the elf began rolling the makeshift bandages. "So, we started wearing beanies or hoodies to cover our ears. Everyone treated us as just another human unless we did something to tip them off, at which point we would leave."

Eragon frowned. It bothered him that even the Varden had people who were not fond of other races. ' _If they don't trust elves, then what are they going to think of Saphira and me?_ ' He subconsciously reached his mind out to Saphira, brushing against her sleeping thoughts to reassure himself. When his mind was calm again and he had confirmed that she was safe, he asked, "Doesn't it bother you, though? You're helping them, and you've fought for them. Don't they respect that? Haven't you at least tried change their minds?"

Arya leveled her gaze with his. "Oh, I tried at first. It led to more trouble than good. Some people already have their minds made up, Eragon. Out of the entire Varden, only a small percentage openly expressed any issue with me and my guards, and I'm sure there are more who keep their thoughts to themselves." She paused to tear the end of a partially rolled strip lengthwise a few inches with her teeth. "I can't let it affect how I act. I fight for the Varden as a whole, and if it costs me a night of drowning myself in dwarvish vodka, I'm okay with that."

"Don't give the boy any ideas." Brom chastised from his bed. He had found a current newspaper in one of the nightstand drawers and was scanning it for any information regarding the Varden, Urgals, Gil'ead, or Eragon and Saphira. "And no getting him drunk. Unless I'm there. Then, well...we'll see."

Arya waved him off. "I know, I know."

The shower cut off. Moments later Murtagh emerged from the bathroom, tendrils of steam clinging to his body and trailing him as the door opened. "Alright, who's next?" He was clean-shaven and wore a simple tshirt and a pair of basketball shorts, still rubbing his head of wild, damp hair with a small towel.

"You're up, kid." Arya clapped Eragon on the shoulder. He hopped up and grabbed a set of clothes that were decently clean and his portable music player before slipping inside the steam filled room and locking the door behind him. Seconds later the muffled chords of country music could be heard as the shower turned on.

Brom folded the paper in half and used it to swat Arya's arm. "When are you going to take your turn? You definitely need it. And I'm putting that lightly."

The elf chuckled. "Last. Trust me, I am going to destroy that shower. The closest I've gotten to being clean was splashing water on my face the last few days. It's been well over six months since I actually showered.

"Fair point."

Murtagh fell onto his roller bed with a contented sigh. "Now this is nice. Hot water, a place to clean our clothes, a locked door. And a _bed!_ " He lifted his head slightly. "Do they have a radio? For such a price they should have at least put a telly in the room."

"I doubt it plays anything but official news and propaganda." Brom grunted, but still leaned over and hit the power button on the small radio clock that graced the bedside table. After a few garbled channels of static and scrolling through the entire range of signals, he finally found one that came in crystal clear.

" _–_ _nds the economic report. Here's Karl Yorgisson with the day's news._ "

Brom snorted. "Told you."

Arya waved him away from hitting the off switch. "Shush, I want to hear this."

" _Thanks, Jason._ " Karl Yorgisson accepted the hand off. " _Still no concrete news on the attack at the Gil'ead military base. Although it is confirmed by the base commander that the attack was carried out by Varden forces, it is unclear if any were captured after their defeat or if any escaped._

 _"We again advise that you keep your eyes peeled for any faces you have seen on watch boards. Remember, not only is there a sizable reward for information, there is also the pride that comes with defending your King and country from the insidious terrorists that lurk in our midst._

 _"In other news, we have a new addition to our team! Rebecca Jayasdaughter is to be joining us for her first broadcast on–_ "

Brom hit the switch when no other news concerning their activities was forthcoming. "Well, that's good. They're not willing to admit that we slipped past them. That means they can't inform the general public about us or why they're searching for us."

"Attacked Gil'ead my arse." Murtagh grumbled, eyes closed and arms folded behind his head. "I climbed in through the bloody _garbage chute._ Could have at least called it a hostile intrusion or sabotage. We don't need the attention of being labeled dangerous attackers, period."

"Saphira told me she ripped the entire roof off their state dining hall. They can't cover up that amount of damage quick enough to pass it off as a single man stealth intrusion." Arya pointed out. "Besides, they'll blame it on an elvish raiding party sooner or later. They always do if the town is near Du Weldenvarden."

Murtagh frowned, confused, yet still refused to open his tired eyes. "Wait…. You're telling me that the reports of elvish raiding parties…?"

"Never happened?" The elf looked at him with genuine surprise and what appeared to be a touch of insult, aghast that he thought the stories were true. "Of course they never happened! We don't send out random raiding parties! Glenwing, Fäolin and I were the only elves to leave the forest since my race retreated there." She shook her head, shocked that he had actually believed the propaganda. "Honestly! It's too risky to send little groups out like that to attack directly, what if one of our fighters were captured!"

The young man cracked open one eye and lifted his head to raise an eyebrow at Arya. "Oh? So, you were just visiting Gil'ead and managed to lock yourself in a cell? The men you were with just fell on their guns, is that it?"

"That is different." Arya snarled. Brom glanced at her, mildly startled by her tone, then turned back to leafing through the phone book and wishing he had brought at least one of his prized lore tomes with him on this harebrained journey. "We weren't attacking, we were in the fringes of Du Weldenvarden. Someone in the Varden betrayed us. That betrayal led to the death of my _fyrn breoal_. I'd prefer it if you didn't make quips about it."

"I apologize." Murtagh dipped his head in her direction as best he could, his words truly sincere. Losing friends to the King was something he was very familiar with. "It was in bad taste."

Arya rubbed her temples and braced her elbows on her knees, shoulders tense. "Apology accepted. I shouldn't have snapped."

Murtagh shrugged. "Eh. Natural response." The room was quiet for a time, the only sound being the rustle of Brom now flipping through the holy book from the desk, the light patter of the shower, Eragon's off key humming, and country music. Then, "What's a _frin br… fyrn bri…._ "

" _Fyrn breoal_. Means war family in the Ancient Language." Brom answered gruffly. Despite the no smoking designation, he pulled his pipe from his discarded jacket and clamped it firmly in his teeth. "Elves who fight often use it to describe their battle buddies. Only the closest knit units use the term." He jerked his chin in Arya's direction. "If I'm not mistaken, that is."

The elf nodded, fiddling with one of the remaining bandages. She was weaving it over and between her fingers, trying to keep her hands busy. "Glenwing and Faölin were my _fyrn darmthrelli_ , my war brothers. We fought for the Varden together for decades."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Arya's jaw tightened slightly. "Shit happens in war. We all lose people. We fight even harder in their memory." She unwound the bandage and then looped the tail around her thumb again, beginning anew.

Murtagh mulled over the new words he had learned, again letting the atmosphere lapse into silence. It wasn't exactly a comfortable one, a little too heavy to be called that, but it was easy enough to be called content. The three currently inhabiting the room were all comfortable with reflecting on their own thoughts without feeling the urge to shatter the silence. Murtagh respected that of Brom and Arya, and was glad that they, too, seemed to respect his quiet.

'Fyrn breoal. _Tornac was my_ fyrn breoal _, then. I guess he would be my war father. Too old to be a war brother._ ' Murtagh's heavy lidded eyes wandered the room. ' _I wonder what he would have thought of all this. Eragon, Saphira, Brom and Arya. Agh, Bloody hell, he'd probably lash me silly for agreeing to go to the Varden and trusting strangers like this._ ' The thought brought a sleepy grin to his face, and his eyes drifted closed.

"Oi. Don't sleep yet. You have to do laundry." Brom snapped when he saw the young man drifting off.

It didn't even phase Murtagh, who just rolled onto his side and mumbled, "Then wake me up when it's ready to be done." and nuzzled his face deeper into his pillow.

It didn't take long for his breathing to even out and his body to relax. Arya nudged the end of the bed with her foot and shook her head when Murtagh only mumbled and groggily waved her off.

"I can do the laundry. Should probably let the guy sleep." She offered when Brom made an annoyed noise at the young man's reaction.

"Can't have you wandering around out there." Brom shifted his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. "If you run into someone who have any education from the army, it could get ugly fast."

"So I'm pretty much useless at this point in time?" Arya asked dryly. "Dear me, I'm in a room where I can't leave. Out of one jail and into another."

"Don't get all brooding on me, girl. Once your clothes are washed you can change out of Murtagh's and maybe the angst will wear off." The elf chuckled at that, and Brom flipped the holy book closed with a definitive snap. "Bloody hell, why is Eragon taking so long?"

The old man stood and went over to the bathroom door. He paused, glanced at Arya, and a bit of a mischievous glint came to his eyes. The elf raised an eyebrow. "Oh stars, I know that look. What are you planning?"

Brom only grinned and shoved his pipe into his pocket before raising his fist and banging on the door, yelling, " _Eragon!_ What the _HELL_ is taking so long?! You had better not be doing what I think you're doing in there!"

There was the distinct sound of someone nearly falling on their ass and sputtered curses. "I'll be done in a minute!"

"Cold water works wonders, boy! Hurry up!"

As Brom returned to his bed Arya swatted him on the arm. "He's a teenage boy. He needs his alone time." She, too, was trying to hold back laughter. "Better he do that in there than when he thinks we're all asleep."

"He should have thought of 'alone time' before he left Carvahall." Brom shot back, but was still grinning from ear to ear. "And trust me, you don't get alone time with a bonded dragon in your mind."

"Poor Saphira!"

The shower squeaked off and Eragon came out, his face and the tips of his tapering ears bright red. He was wearing a pair of long pajama pants and a loose t-shirt with the sleeves cut off.

"You could have just told me to hurry up." The boy grumbled, shooting Brom a moody glare.

Brom nodded with a chuckle. "Aye, but then you wouldn't have actually gotten out right when I asked."

"Well, I wasn't–" His face went an even deeper shade of red when he realized Arya was still awake and watching him, bemused. "I wouldn't do that with people in the next…. I just like hot showers, okay?" Pink blotches started appearing on his neck, collarbones and shoulders as he blushed furiously.

"Hey, I'm not saying anything." Arya put her hands up. "What you do in the shower is none of my business."

Brom grabbed his fresh clothes and brushed by the younger Rider. "You can sleep now, boy. No watches tonight. Put your dirty clothes next to Murtagh's."

Still red, Eragon placed his travel clothes next to the small pile Murtagh had made and sat on his bed. Arya was stretched out on the other side, leaning against the headboard, and was flipping through the holy book Brom had abandoned. She didn't seem to be reading it, just turning the pages to give herself something to do.

"You alright with me here until Brom gets out? I can move to his bed if you want me to." She asked as the Eragon wiggled underneath the tightly tucked sheets and blanket.

"No, it's okay. I don't mind." He attempted to adjust the pile of pillows behind his head and, giving up, pulled one out and tossed it at Murtagh. The sleeping man grumbled, kicking the pillow off his legs, and raised a middle finger in Eragon's general direction. "If you...um...if you don't want to sleep on the floor we could...you know, split sheet."

Eragon's ears flared a deep maroon as Arya let out a soft laugh. "Thanks, but I need to be out of general sight if anyone comes in. People would wonder why three people checked in and suddenly a fourth person appeared. Bed blocks the view of my little hideout." The Rider mumbled a ' _good point_ ' and tried to ignore the glimmer of amusement in the elf's dark eyes. "Is Saphira doing alright out there?"

"Yeah. She's asleep." Glad for the change in topic, Eragon busied himself with plugging his music player into the complimentary charger on the bedside table and wrapped his headphones around it carefully. "I think she's a little glad for the time alone. She grew up in the woods near my farm after she hatched, and since we started traveling with Murtagh I think she's been missing the solitude, not to mention a chance to sleep for a full night."

A slight smile tilted the corners of Arya's lips as she turned another page. "I think we've all earned a little rest."

Eragon nodded in agreement, punctuated by a wide yawn. The hot shower had made him drowsy on top of being bone tired. Coupled with the soft pillows, warm blankets, Saphira's sleeping thoughts and the safety of the walls around him, the boy found himself already drifting off. "Yeah." He murmured, eyelids drooping closed. "G'night, Arya."

"Good night, kid."

As Eragon dropped off, the elf gently settled the holy book on the bed and slipped down onto her makeshift mattress to begin preparing for her own turn in the shower. She released her braid and combed out the snarls in her hair, wiped off what bits of blood and grime that she could with a scrap of shredded sheet, and put her dirty fatigues on the pile near Murtagh's bed. When Brom stepped out, beard and mustache neatly clipped, he found Arya waiting quietly next to the door with the last package of toiletries and a fresh towel in her lap.

"Take as long as you want." Brom grunted, jerking his head towards the shower and flinging out a few water droplets from his still damp hair. "I'm sending Murtagh to do laundry and then heading to sleep."

"I'll try not to destroy the entire hotel's hot water supply." Arya grinned wryly as she stood. "I'll wake you if anything concerning happens."

~~~

Arya shut off the water and watched the last dregs slide down the drain. It had taken ten minutes of soap, scrubbing and hot water to get the water flowing off her body to run lighter than dark grey. Another ten minutes saw it finally run clear, and five minutes under shockingly cold spray soothed the vicious burning in her healing wounds and scars. She shook herself and wrung out her hair as much as she could before stepping out and grabbing a towel.

A few brief minutes later she was again clothed in her borrowed jeans and her sports bra, and she stepped out of the bathroom. A quick check confirmed that Murtagh had not yet returned. He slipped inside just as the elf was tying off the last strip of bandage around her leg, the rest of the shredded sheet already wrapped around her torso.

"Heads up." Murtagh grunted, tossing Arya her fatigues. She muttered her thanks, feeling the effects of the hot shower sinking in. "Good night, Arya."

"'Night, Murtagh." The young man hit the last light before tumbling onto his roller bed with the ' _whumph_ ' of a relieved sigh. After a quick last look around the room to ensure everyone was accounted for, Arya followed suit.

No one dreamed. They just slept.

~~~

Eragon tore the covers off as a shrill alarm stabbed into his ears. For a confusing moment lights and sound blinded him. He threw his mind out to Saphira to see through her eyes, only to remember that she was a league away, hiding in the woods. He felt her wake and surge to her feet, his panic alarming her.

A swarm of curses in various languages assaulted him as he finally began to register his surroundings.

They were still in the hotel room, but the standard fire alarm on the wall was alive with flashing lights and mind shattering sound. To his right Brom was shoving the small pile of his clean clothes in his travel bag, swearing in a mildly familiar, old tribal dialect of the Spine. To Eragon's left, Arya was already zipping Murtagh's borrowed jacket up to cover the makeshift bandages on her torso, not even bothering with a shirt as she threw her fatigues onto her unzipped combat jacket. She zipped it, wrapped it up and clamped a spare blade harness strap around it before slinging the bundle across her back by the tied together sleeves and tore the window open. Eragon swore he heard her hissing choice words in the Ancient Language, but the intonation and inflections were markedly different.

Of all of them, Murtagh appeared to be the least disturbed by the noise. He sat lacing up his boots, already clothed in his travel gear, and his previously covered rifle was laid out on the bed within arms reach. As he picked the weapon up and chambered the first round Eragon realized the man was swearing in a steady monotone, never _once_ reusing a word. When he seemed to run out of words in the common human language, he switched to what Eragon gathered was a dialect from his local hometown. His vocabulary was impressive to say the least.

"What the bloody hell is happening?" Eragon asked, snatching up his gear. He felt the distinct tickle of Saphira using his ears to hear the answer, her body tensing as she prepared to race to his aid.

Brom shoved the clip on the top of his bag together with a hurried snap. "From what I can gather, the desk clerk told her replacement about us and they checked the front tapes. They recognized at least one of us and they're setting up the local garrison outside the doors as we speak."

Murtagh's muttered swearing filled the brief gap in conversation. " _Faigh muin, deoghail am fallus bhàrr duine mharbh siadha tiadhan, cao–_ "

Eragon ignored him and haphazardly threw his clothing into his backpack, yanking on the zipper when it refused to close all the way. "What's the alarm about then?" He checked that Zar'roc's hilt and pommel were still wrapped, concealing the gem and shining grip, then strapped the blade on his hip.

"They're trying to lure us to the emergency exit." Brom growled. "Tell Saphira to keep out of sight unless absolutely necessary. We still have a chance get out of here without letting them see her."

' _There won't be anything to see if I eat them all._ ' The dragon hissed in response. Eragon's jaw twinged as she snapped her teeth in frustration. ' _I'll decide when to be seen. Just hurry up. I can smell a reinforcement company approaching._ '

Eragon relayed her message. The speed of Murtagh's swearing increased while even Brom let out a particularly foul word. "How are we getting out?" The younger Rider asked. "We can't go out and we can't go up without having Saphira try to fly us out, and she can't carry four people."

"Theta Rescue." Arya grabbed Eragon's backpack before he could pick it up. "Or as I like to call it unofficially, 'The Reversed Cliché.'" She threw his bag out the window, ignoring his cry of confusion.

"Only if you're up for it." Brom threw his bag to her, and she repeated the process. Murtagh calmly handed his over with a polite nod and a swear that Arya must have recognized, for she snapped back at him with a word of her own. "It's quite a drop, even for you. The added weight won't help."

"No alternative I can see. Unless you want to tie together bed sheets." Her head cocked to the side. "They're sweeping the floor below us."

"Theta it is." Brom set himself up behind the wall near the door. "Lightest first, heaviest last. Eragon, Murtagh, you both are going to do exactly as Arya says, when she says you do it. Order is Eragon, me, then you Murtagh."

"Wait, what's happening?" Eragon asked as Arya grabbed his arm and pulled him to the window. "What are you doing?"

Arya flashed him a grin that didn't reach her now flinty eyes. "Don't worry. All you have to do is trust me. And don't wiggle."

"Wigg–" Eragon was cut off as the elf ducked and suddenly swept him off his feet in a fireman's carry. He only had time to spit out a quick "Oh Sweet Sara–" before Arya jumped out the window.

~~~

Half an hour later found the group galloping past the stand of trees where Saphira had hidden. The dragon leapt over their heads and snapped her wings out, startling the horses. ' _On the road again, Little One?_ ' She asked, gaining altitude to circle above them.

' _On the road again._ ' Eragon affirmed, letting their thoughts mingle and intertwine in a way that the distance had previously made difficult. He felt her joy of flight and relief at being reunited, but also her displeasure. The close call had further confirmed her theory that he was a magnet for trouble. ' _I'm going to hear about this later, aren't I?_ '

The dragon chuffed, the odd sound resonating through their mental link. ' _You're just lucky Brom has a good head on his shoulders._ ' With that she drove her wings down, shooting up another hundred feet. ' _You_ will _fly with me today._ '

' _Yes ma'am._ ' Eragon smiled and Saphira crowed her jubilation to the sky.

Dust billowed from the horse's hooves as they continued on their journey. It was good to be on the road again.


	7. Two For Flinching

**MODERN INHERITANCE  
TWO FOR FLINCHING**

Eragon winced as Saphira landed. Per their usual travel plans since Gil'ead and Arya's awakening he had spent the night flying with Saphira while the others traveled at a continued breakneck pace on the ground with the horses. It was wearing them all down, even Saphira, and the few hours of sleep they managed to get during the daylight hours did little to alleviate the stress travel was putting on their bodies.

Camp was already in the midst of being set as Eragon untied his legs from the saddle and slid down Saphira's side. He landed then grimaced as he fell to his knees, muscles feeling like jelly.

"Did you see anything worth mentioning?" Brom asked as the young Rider pushed himself up. When he shook his head, not trusting himself to speak aloud, the older man grunted and turned back to unsaddling Snowfire. "There's supposed to be some old, ruined staging points of the Varden's around here. Must be further up ahead. We're going slower than I thought."

"We're going as fast as we can." Murtagh snapped. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. Lately Eragon had noticed that the other youth was becoming increasingly agitated, quick to anger, and it wasn't just the lack of sleep getting to him."If you want to warn the Varden so bad, do some of your little magic tricks and tell them about the Urgals."

Arya spoke quickly from where she crouched coaxing the fire to life, cutting off Brom's scathing retort and ending the argument before it began. "It doesn't exactly work like that. Besides, the Varden has specific wards around their strongholds, preventing scrying and other magical forms of communication."

Eragon eased himself down next to the elf, trying to warm fingers stiff from flying so high in the chill clouds. "Then how do they stay in contact with you and anyone else outside their hiding spots? It seems dangerous to be so isolated."

The woman gently rearranged a few sticks to give the young flames more air and slipped a dark object under the growing pile of embers. "Special radios were developed, using the fingerprint technology similar to lock on my backpack. Mine was destroyed when Durza tried to operate it himself." She cracked a slight grin, still focused on her task. "Well, actually, it blew up in his face. Brain matter, just _everywhere._ Huh- _hoo_ , he was _pissed_ when he got back."

"The Varden rigs them to _explode_ if the person's fingerprint doesn't match?!" Eragon recoiled slightly, agast. "What if someone's kid found it and thought it was a toy?"

Off to the side, Brom snorted, muttering, "I bet it wasn't the Varden who–"

"No, I rigged it up myself, and only for those who bore ill-will to the Varden and free races in case it fell into the wrong hands."

"Knew it." Brom scoffed. Arya looked over her shoulder to the old Rider and rolled her eyes. "You just like seeing things explode."

"Yeah, well, I don't think I've laughed so hard in years than when that thing went off. I think I even cracked a rib."

Brom shook his head, but let the matter go.

It wasn't long before the fire was high and the day's meal heated. They sat around the burning logs, Saphira even laying her head down to occupy a third of the circle, and planned the next few legs of travel. When the food was eaten, the talk dwindled away as they all sat staring into the flames, tired but not wanting to sleep just yet.

Then Saphira flicked out her tongue, as if tasting the air, and projected her thoughts to the group.

' _Whoever has the infected wound should care for it soon._ ' Everyone looked up, mildly startled out of their inner musings. ' _It will turn into a deep-rot in another day or so. Just thought they should know._ '

"You can smell things like that?" Eragon asked, surprised. "Are you like one of those dogs that can smell cancer?"

The dragon cut her eyes at him and her lip lifted slightly. ' _I am_ nothing _like a dog._ '

The boy smiled apologetically, realizing his mistake. "I know. Sorry. But it's pretty cool being able to smell things like that."

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. "Aye, it's _cool._ But shouldn't we be more focused on who the hell was hiding a possibly necrotic wound? Things like that need to be addressed. It would only slow us down more."

Then a ringing _SMACK!_ broke through the air as Brom suddenly slapped Arya upside the head.

"What the hell were you thinking, girl?" He growled, expression dark.

"Ow! Hey, why the fuck do you think it's me?!" The elf retorted sharply, rubbing the back of her head and glaring back at him.

Everyone, even Saphira, gave the woman a deadpan look that clearly stated ' _really?_ '

"Alright, alright, so yeah, maybe a cut or two got infected, but I'm already fixing them, okay?" Arya snarled, pointing at the handle of a knife sticking out of the dying fire's thick pile of coals.

Silence fell.

"Are you sure that is the best idea?" Brom asked slowly. He seemed to have calmed down a bit now that Arya had revealed having an actual plan and wasn't just ignoring her injuries. "There's always magic. You don't have to–"

"And who, exactly, would cast it, hm? Eragon? Can you instruct him in the intricacies of infection cleansing within the next few minutes? I've still got enough drug in me to complicate healing spells, so that's out of the question. And I'll not have you working spells on me, not when the Varden will need you at your best." Arya shook her head. "No, it will have to be burned."

Murtagh stood at the mention of burning. "Oh, bloody hell. Not right after we ate!" He retreated to where he had tossed his saddlebags and began unrolling his sleeping bag. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again– you're bloody _insane,_ Arya. I don't want to see this. I'm going to sleep."

"Sweet dreams, Murtagh." The elf called after him in a singsong voice. "Don't let the sizzling wake you up!" The young man let out a noise of disgust and threw himself on the blankets. "Wuss."

' _She can't be serious about this!_ ' Eragon exclaimed to Saphira, worried about the elf who was unlacing her boots as calmly as a praying monk. ' _She's already hurt enough! We should offer to heal it. I know she shot Brom down, but–_ '

Saphira cut him off. ' _Little one, do you honestly think that we know enough about healing to cleanse even a scratch of infection without making it worse? Brom has explained before that_ waíse heill _has its limitations, one of the most dangerous being that if it closes an infected injury the infection will survive beneath the skin._ ' Eragon grimaced, cursing himself for nearly forgetting one of the nuances of the spell. ' _Once the infected flesh is burned away,_ then _we can attempt to heal it for Arya._ '

Her logic was sound. ' _I still don't like it. But you're right._ '

The dragon sniffed, a short puff of smoke dissipating into the air above her nostrils. ' _Of course I am._ '

Eragon grinned, then turned his attention back to where Brom and Arya still sat by the fire as the older Rider grunted, "That looks like it hurt. You're lucky it didn't break." The boy approached them as Arya finished rolling her pant leg up to her knee.

"Perks of elvish bones, I guess." Arya muttered, gently testing the skin around the injury. On the outside of her left calf was a nasty, scraping gash, most likely left by the sharp edge of a hobnailed boot if the bruising pattern was anything to go by. The skin around the ragged edges was pink and red, and cracks ran through the roughly palm sized scab covering the cut and revealing damp, yellowish flesh beneath. Pinkish, yellow tinged fluid leaked from the cracks. "Yee-uck. At least it isn't necrotic. You were right, Saphira. This one is about to turn." The elf flashed a thankful smile to the dragon. "Hell, you might have just saved my leg."

' _You're quite welcome._ '

Eragon winced when he saw the wound. "After you, uh…burn it, I can close it for you. A burn isn't too hard to heal, and it would keep it from getting infected again and slowing you down."

For a for a split second the memory of healing the elf's back jumped to the forefront of his mind. Not images of the horrifying wounds, but of warm skin, lean muscle and an unmistakably feminine body. Eragon felt the tips of his tapering ears turn bright red, and he quickly stuck his hands in his pockets, pinching himself hard through the fabric. It was definitely _not_ the time for those kinds of thoughts.

He was thankful, then, that Arya looked over to Brom after giving him only a quick glance. "What do you think, old man? I can keep up well enough. Wouldn't mind a little less risk of that changing though."

Brom crossed his arms. "It's up to the boy and Saphira. Do you two think you can handle it?"

Eragon nodded firmly. "I'm sure I can. Definitely if Saphira helps. I really don't mind it, and it's the least I can do after being unable to heal the rest of your wounds properly."

"Hey, you and Saphira don't owe me anything. You saved my life in probably three different ways so far, so I'm the one that owes you all." Arya pulled a field medkit from her bag and tore off two short wads of gauze from a roll. "If you both want to heal it and it won't put either of you in danger, I won't complain. It won't be the last time I say it, but thank you. Really."

Eragon smiled, a strange warmth bubbling in his heart at the elf's expression of gratitude. In the back of his mind he sensed Saphira examining his emotions, and was a little confused when the dragon mentally chuckled at them. "You're welcome. I like to help where I can."

"Mm. Let's get this over with then." Without further ado Arya pulled the knife from the coals.

It was an old blade of human make, and by the seal stamped on the handle Eragon recognized it as one of the combat knives he had grabbed from a soldier during their mad escape from Gil'ead. In the light of the midmorning sun it was difficult to judge if the metal was glowing fiercely, but the blade had acquired a unmistakeable, faint orange color at the sides and an inch down the tip. At the thicker sections it seemed to be lit on the inside by a deep, dark cherry red glow.

Arya took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and went to stick the wad of gauze in her mouth as she lowered the hot blade towards her leg. Brom's hand suddenly settled on her shoulder, and she looked up at him, startled out of her grim task.

"Do you want me to do it?" The old Rider's voice was surprisingly gentle, soft even. In the months he had traveled with him, Eragon had heard him speak in such a tone only a handful of times, mostly murmured under his breath to himself or to Jeod when talking about the Varden and times past. Despite their rough banter, Eragon realized the Brom and Arya were undoubtedly good friends, to the point that he wondered if the two had fought together on the battlefield.

Arya looked between Brom and the knife for a moment, then sighed, "You might have to if I flinch and can't keep up the pressure. I want to try it myself first, but thanks for having my back." Brom nodded and pulled his hand back as the elf bit down on the gauze.

Then, without any other warning, she tore her nails across the gash in her leg, ripping away the disintegrating scab, and shoved the flat of the glowing knife into the now open wound.

Eragon jerked back, flinching as his self preservation instinct screamed at the indecency of blatant self-destruction. It wasn't the visual that disturbed him, but the _sound_ of the metal burning away first the blood and fluids, and then the infected flesh beneath. It hissed and sizzled, and occasionally sounded like the powerful magnet toys he used to buy at the fair and toss in the air hear their buzzing song.

For a moment Arya's muscles snapped rigid, then she seemed to recover and her face fell into a blank, emotionless mask. After letting the blade rest in its original spot for several long seconds she lifted it and exposed the two remaining sections of the gash to the heat, quickly wiping the knife on the other piece of gauze between each burning. Eragon's stomach did a sickening maneuver similar to a double full flip he had witnessed Katrina do at one of her gymnastics presentations with Roran when he realized that she was wiping seared flesh off the blade.

Then it was over. The entire procedure couldn't have taken more than a minute, but the scent of burned meat hung in the air. Where infection had once turned tissue yellow and white, there was now only bright red muscle shot through with soot and darkened epidermis.

"That...wasn't as bad as I thought it would be." Arya hissed and spat the gauze out. Her teeth were clenched, but her movements were controlled, smooth, and betrayed no other indications that she was in pain. "I'm not looking forward to it if I need to do it again, though."

Brom rubbed his face, a little paler than usual. "There's something just…so much _more_ disturbing about seeing you do it to yourself."

"Dear Gods above, _I HEARD IT ALL THE WAY OVER HERE!_ " Came a distraught groan from Murtagh's sleeping bag. Arya snatched a stick from the pile next to the fire, abandoning the still-hot knife, and whipped it at the tucked form huddled in the bag. It pegged the young man exactly where his head should have been, and muffled swearing drifted through the camp before it dwindled off as he rolled over and tried his best to sleep.

Eragon scooted closer, forcing himself to swallow back his queasiness. "Here, can we…." Arya leaned her head back and nodded, eyes shut tight as heat lingered in the wound.

Reaching out a thicker tendril of his consciousness to Saphira, the young Rider met the mind of his dragon halfway. Their thoughts, consciousnesses, and minds twisted around each other, binding together more strongly than they usually did. Saphira's energy flowed into Eragon, and he in turn shared some of his until the stream equaled out and they were one.

Together they moved Eragon's hand out, the Gedwëy Ignasia shining bright, and uttered the words needed to heal the now cleansed burn. The icy magic rushed through their joined minds, knitting the skin back together with the ease of water flowing from one side of a creak to the next.

As they completed their task, Saphira pulled back from the increased contact, again leaving their minds connected by the usual tendrils of thought. Once separated, Saphira mentioned to Eragon, ' _Your magic tickles._ ' And rubbed her snout on the side of her foreleg.

' _Does it? It always feels cold to me._ ' Eragon sat back on his heels, checking the wound to make sure he had not left any scarring this time. Like the other times he and Saphira had worked magic while bound together, he only felt a slight drain on their combined strength. ' _I know when something is healed on me it itches like crazy though. Is that what you're feeling?_ '

' _Being a conduit is different from both casting and being casted on. Acting as the in-between must be giving me the sensation of both the cold and the itching. It makes my scales tickle._ ' As if to demonstrate her point, the scales at Saphira's neck lifted slightly with a sound similar to dry leaves being whisked away by a strong wind. The scales rose and lowered in a ripple along her entire body, giving the distinct impression that she had shivered. ' _So, how did we do?_ '

"Very well for such a simply worded spell." Eragon realized that Saphira had projected her last thought to Arya and Brom as well when the elf answered. She tested the new skin, not at all bothered that they had not healed the bruising, and seemed happy with the results of their casting. "You're quite adept at magic for knowing so few words in the Ancient Language. From what I've seen, you have an uncanny ability to influence your spells more with your intentions than the words you use."

Brom grunted, nodding in Eragon's direction. The older man's chest seemed to swell with pride at the praise directed at his pupil. "Aye, he's got a gift. And Saphira carries it as well. I've never heard of a dragon acting as such a strong conduit before. You both are learning well."

Touched, Eragon dipped his head as both he and Saphira answered the compliments. Any praise coming from Brom was few and far between, and now he was practically bragging to Arya about their progress.

A comfortable silence fell once again. Brom laid out his sleeping bag, surrendering his usual first watch to Arya at her insistence that 'old men need their rest,' and Saphira lifted her head from where it rested to tuck it under the tip of her tail, settling in to sleep. Arya tugged her boots back on and reloaded her pistol. Eragon stayed by the fire with her for a few more minutes, content to be close to the elf for a little longer before he too retired for sleep.

"Oh! Right." Arya suddenly looked over at him, a gleam in her dark eyes. He met her gaze, puzzled, then let out a yelp as her fist shot out and punched him in the arm twice. He knew it was probably a love tap for someone of elvish strength, but it still stung.

"Hey!" Eragon leaned away from her, rubbing his sore arm. It would definitely be bruised by the time he woke that night. "What was that for?"

The elf grinned, rising to her feet to stretch and take her place for the first watch. She slung her sword and its harness over one shoulder, and Eragon felt a hot blush blossom on his cheeks when she casually roughed up his hair as she stepped by him. "Two for flinching."


End file.
